


Stay With Me

by littlebluemeanie



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebluemeanie/pseuds/littlebluemeanie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"C'mon Macca, keep your eyes open. Stay with me. You can do it, just keep breathing." he pleaded. </p><p>John didn't deserve to have so many people taken away from him, did he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Can't Work It Out

"Come 'ead lads, just one more take. We're on the right track, John if you could-"

            "Fucking hell! Paul, it's four in the bloody morning. Can't we just all go home and finish this later?"

            The Beatles were in the middle of yet another late night recording session, working on another of Paul's songs. All of them were worn out. Everyone except Paul, it seemed. He still looked so determined to get the song to as close to perfection as possible. However, there were bags under all their eyes and their bodies slumped from sheer exhaustion. Mugs and paper cups littered the studio floor, some half filled with tea or coffee. Half finished jam butties and other snacks lay forgotten all around the room.

            "But we're almost done! I know we can finish this before dawn." Paul answered, a grin plastered on his face.

            "We all feel like shit. There's no way we're gonna get the bloody thing finished if we keep going at this rate. And frankly, I'm tired of the stupid song."

            As soon as the words left John's mouth, he immediately regretted it. A flash of hurt crossed Paul's face before it disappeared behind a newly formed mask. The bassist's hazel eyes hardened as he glared at John. _Fuck. I'm in trouble now,_ John thought as he realized his obvious mistake. Never insult one of Paul's songs at four in the morning.

            "Aw shit, Macca I didn't-"

            "Fuck you, John. I'm just trying to get my 'stupid song' to sound good. But if you think it's so 'stupid' maybe you can just leave. Then I can finally finish some things around here!" Paul interrupted, his voice rising so much it sounded more childish than harsh.

            John knew Paul was being juvenile but it still struck a nerve in him. He didn't want to take this shit any longer. No, he had to fight back. This was a matter of Paul needing to learn that he couldn't just order people around. Besides, this was The Beatles, not Paul and the Other Guys.

            "Paul, you're acting like a three year old. I'm not gonna fucking leave. This is MY band. You can't just go prancing around telling people what to do like you own the whole fucking place!" John retorted.

            George sat near the two, rolling his eyes at the petty quarrel. It seemed a lot more frequent these days, but he quickly learned not to intervene. The first time he'd tried to break it up, the guitarist had ended up with a bloody nose.

             He chewed on some biscuits as the yelling continued. Soon, the argument started to kick up a notch. Ringo signaled at George, pointing to the door. Suddenly, leaving was sounding like a great idea. Quickly, to avoid the ensuing brawl, they snuck out of the studio to breathe some fresh air and have a smoke.

            "Well it's MY fucking song! And I'm going to make it sound just the way I bloody well want it!" Paul answered.

            "Get this through your thick head! Not everything revolves around you, Paul! Stop being so conceited for a minute and think for once!" John yelled. Paul just wasn't getting this.

            "I don't need this shit," Paul murmured, "Fine. If you're not leaving, then I am. I don't care if the song gets finished or not. I fucking quit!" After pushing past John and grabbing his coat, Paul stormed out of the studio, hopped into his car and sped away.

            John didn't register what was had happened until after Paul had walked out the door. He knew that the bassist wasn't acting reasonably due to the lack of sleep. He needed to talk to Paul. John ran outside, ready to confront his mate, but all he could see was an Aston Martin speeding down the road, away from Abbey Road.

            "He's a right bastard, he'll come back. He always does." John whispered to himself. He knew that Paul was probably just exhausted. John stretched his arms and walked back inside, awaiting the return of the bassist. He expected a full apology from the younger man once Paul realized the error of his ways.

            John was strumming his guitar, playing around with random chords when George and Ringo finally returned twenty minutes later. They looked around, seeing no sign of Paul. George raised his eyebrows at the older man.

            "Hey, where's Paul gone off to now?" Ringo asked, looking at the forgotten Hofner bass at John's feet.

            "It's Princess Paulie's time of the month," John replied, eliciting a snort and chuckle from the two, "He stormed off twenty minutes ago, but he'll be back. The silly bugger doesn't know how to take a joke at four in the morning."

            After some more jokes at Paul's expense and more bouts of laughter, George and Ringo finally decided to pack up and head home. They were drained and wanted nothing more than a good night's (or morning's) sleep. John decided to remain at the studio, knowing that Paul was coming back soon. Even if he still hadn't forgiven John, he'd want his beloved bass back. Then John could finally talk to the bastard he called his best mate.

            George packed up, waving at John and Ringo, "G'night Johnny, g'night Rings. See you later." Then he was out the door. Ringo followed shortly after.

            Finally, John was left alone with his thoughts and guitar. New song ideas swirled in his mind as he started to write down bits of verses and random chord progressions. After much writing and erasing, a new song was slowly forming. _Gotta show this to Paul when he gets back,_ John thought, _I think this one might be good._ He looked at the clock on the wall, his eyes straining to see where the hands were pointing without his glasses. Exasperated, he stood up to take a closer look.

            Half past five o' clock.

            Where was Paul?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The PID theory has always fascinated me, even though I know it to be complete rubbish. This story deviates from the myth, but I wanted to write Mclennon and I came across a very good drawing on deviantart. It was Mclennon fanart and it was about the PID theory. It was one of those "What if John had been there?" kinds of things. So there you go, that was my inspiration. I'm a bit nervous about this one, some parts I don't like and I find terribly written, but I like it overall. I appreciate comments though, good or bad. :)
> 
> Next chapter is on the way soon!


	2. I Should Have Known Better

            An Aston Martin sped down the roads of London, its driver going nowhere in particular. Paul was angry. At who, he didn't know. At first he was mad at John for insulting his work, then he was mad at George for not standing up for him, soon after, he was mad at Ringo for escaping instead of stopping the feud, and finally, he was mad at himself for being such a prick. Barely looking at the road, he thought about how stupid he had been, yelling at John when they were all so knackered. _I'm a bloody idiot._ Paul thought.

            He pulled over to the side of the road to collect his thoughts. He really had been stupid. Why did he always insist on working the rest of the band into the ground? The song sounded quite good, at least to everyone else's ears. Why couldn't he leave it at that? _Why am I such a fucking dick?_ Paul scolded himself.

            After much debate, he decided to do what he always hated doing. Admitting he was wrong to the great John Winston Lennon. Christ, he'd be bagged on for weeks. Paul figured that it would all be worth it though if he could just apologize. Reluctantly, he started the engine again and turned around, speeding back to Abbey Road.

            Soon, he was a few blocks away from the studio. Paul's thoughts churned in his head. He had no idea what to say to John once he got back. What could he say? He was sorry for working them into the ground? His cheeks flushed with embarrassment at the thought of having to admit his wrongdoing. Just as he approached the last intersection before Abbey Road, Paul glanced at his watch, trying to see what time it was in the dim light of the moon.

            Half past five o' clock.

            _Fuck. I've been gone that long?_ Paul finally glanced up from his wrist, after having almost forgotten he was driving. He looked up to find that the lights had changed and another car was speeding toward him. Quickly, he veered left, and the other car swerved right, zooming past him.

            Paul looked back to see that the car had driven ahead, out of danger. Unfortunately, when he turned his head back to look at the road, he realized he'd accidentally turned the wheel too far. He was only a few feet away from crashing into a tree. Paul only had time to raise his arms before the car slammed into the massive trunk. Immense pain flared up throughout his body and the world went black.

***

            John stared at the clock, silently willing Paul to make up his mind and get back to the studio. He was just about to sit down and take a quick kip when he heard the squeal of tires and a loud crash following soon after.

            It sounded like something had happened right outside the studio. Adrenaline rushed through his veins as he hurried outside, whipping his head from left to right to find where the noise had come from.

            Finally, he noticed down the road, someone had crashed through a low brick wall and slammed right into a huge tree at the end of street. The car was completely mangled at the front. Then, John realized that it looked exactly like Paul's car. No, it _was_ Paul's car. His eyes widened and he swore loudly before dashing toward the accident.

            By the time he reached the car, John was out of breath. He panted and put his hands on his knees, trying to breathe normally again. He looked up and suddenly forgot how tired he was. The windshield was gone. Pieces of glass littered Paul's body and the interior of the car.

            Paul looked near death, and he probably was. His face was scrunched up in pain and blood oozed from a head wound, pouring down the side of his face. Paul's upper lip was split and he had chipped one of his front teeth. The bassist's left arm was bent at an unnatural angle and there were wounds wherever skin showed, more blood seeping from each one.

            John tried to assess more of the situation, and that's when he noticed that something was horribly wrong.

            The car was on fire.

            "PAUL!"

***

            Pain.

            That was all that Paul knew. Horrible, awful, immeasurable pain. In that moment, he wanted to die. Wanted the suffering to end. It was just too much. Paul had never wished for death. Ever.

            But in that moment, Death would be the sweetest release of all.

            Just as he was about to give up and let Death carry him far away from all his earthly wounds, memories started to flash through his mind. Familiar faces and beautiful memories raced around his head, not letting him forget what he would be leaving behind if he let go now.

            Paul thought of his dad and his little brother Mike. What would they do if they found out he had died? What about John, George, Ringo? They'd all be devastated. Especially John. Too many people had left him already and he couldn't do that to him. Paul had promised he'd never leave. He had to hold on. Paul couldn't just let go without apologizing to all of them. Too many things would be left unsaid.

            Worst of all, he wouldn't be able to say goodbye.

            Then, a voice cut through the darkness.  An angel had come to rescue him.

            _PAUL!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, the crash. I feel bad for being so brutal to my dear Paulie, but car crashes aren't very soft on people :/  
> This whole thing is mostly in John's POV but as you can see, it switches POVs quite a bit, and later on too.  
> But he lives, and John found him! Truth be told, I already have most of the story written, so updates are super fast. Just gotta do some editing here and there :)


	3. Help!

John was frantic.

            He desperately pulled at the handle of the door, but it was jammed. Yet, determined to get Paul out of there, John pulled with all his strength, placing one foot on the side of the car. Finally, the door opened, revealing the rest of Paul's mangled body.

            "J-John? H-h-help me..." Paul's lashes fluttered. His breathing was ragged and uneven. Yet, relief washed through John. _He's still alive..._

            "Don't worry Macca, I'll get you out of here. You're _not_ going to die on me," John said. Then, he noticed that Paul's legs were trapped. "Paul, this is going to hurt, but I'm gonna have to untangle your legs." He knew that at least one of Paul's legs had to be busted, but what choice did he have? John looked to the front of the car. The fire was slowly but steadily increasing.

            "Shit!" John panicked and got to work, trying to be as gentle as possible. He slid Paul's legs out from under the wheel. Paul's pained moans indicated that at least one leg was indeed broken.

            Once Paul's legs were free, John picked him up bridal style. The younger cried out in protest, and John knew that the pain had to be almost unbearable now. He couldn't stay there though, he had to get as far away from the burning car as possible. John ran as fast as his legs could carry him, despite Paul's tortured cries.

            Suddenly, an explosion echoed through the empty streets of London. Luckily, John had run far enough away to not be hurt by it. Still, he felt the rush of intense heat on his back. Paul continued to howl in pain and John's heart broke. No matter what shit he'd put the band through, Paul didn't deserve this.

            John came to a halt near the studio. He just couldn't carry another grown man more than twenty feet. Breathing heavily, he set Paul down on the cold, concrete ground. The younger man's cries faded to faint whimpers. Blood continued to trickle down the side of his face and his breathing was even fainter than before.

            "C'mon Macca, keep your eyes open. Stay with me. You can do it, just keep breathing." John pleaded. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, but he furiously blinked them away.

            "H-h-hurts...to breathe," Paul whispered as tears appeared in the corners of his hazel eyes, "Johnny...I'm scared."

            John choked back a sob. Seeing his best mate in the most vulnerable state imaginable was killing him. He pushed the stray hairs on Paul's face away. No, he wouldn't let another person he loved die on him again. John didn't deserve to have so many people taken away from him, did he?

            "Sshh, you'll be fine. Everything will be alright, you hear me? Not a bleedin' thing to be scared of, Paulie." John spoke soothingly, continuing to stroke the broken man's dark brown hair.

            "I'm sorry, John...I-I'm s-so sorry..." Paul murmured, "For everything." His large, droopy eyes fluttered softly before closing once again. Blood started to dribble from his nose. More of the crimson liquid pooled in his mouth. Suddenly, a violent cough tore at Paul's throat, causing warm blood to spray John's upper body.

            The older man's eyes widened. Ignoring the pungent smell of blood, John frantically looked around the street, looking for anybody that could possibly save the most important man in his life. Seeing that the vicinity was still devoid of people (how could anyone _not_ have heard the explosion?), he looked down again to Paul's battered face. He thought he'd heard the younger man say something. Suddenly, John's face paled and his blood ran cold.

            Paul wasn't breathing.

            "FUCK!"

            "HELP!"

***

            He wanted to hold on, he really did. But the more he tried to cling on to the life that still had much in store for him, the more his fingers seemed to slip just out of reach. Paul could feel the numbing cold creeping through his muscles, replacing the warmth of blood flowing through his veins. He wanted to stay, but he was so tired. A single tear trickled down his cheek, mingling with the blood and debris on his face.

            Suddenly, a faint warmth seemed to touch his body, filling him with a little strength and deadening the excruciating pain. A familiar aroma wafted through the air, smelling of freshly baked pies and newly laundered clothes. It smelt like...

            "Mum," he managed to gasp softly.

            He saw her smiling face, reaching her arms out to embrace him. He felt himself reach out too.

            Then the light enclosed him, carrying him away from the pain, oh the horrible pain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me, this isn't the end yet!


	4. You Can't Do That

            John screamed as loud as he could. _Somebody_ had to hear him. A few seconds later, a young man ran up to the hysterical guitarist, asking if he needed assistance.

            "Go call a fucking ambulance! Me mate's dying right in front of me! Can't you see that?"

            "Oh shit, yeah, I'll go-" Abruptly, the man stopped speaking, looking John up and down, "Hey, aren't you John Lennon?"

            "No, I'm Jesus Christ, _yes I'm John Lennon!_ Now go call the bloody ambulance!"

            In less than a second, the man ran to the nearest telephone booth and dialed 999. Seeing that the stranger had finally come to his senses and called for help, John immediately turned his attention to Paul, trying to coax the dying man back to him.

            He didn't know what he was supposed to do. Had he ever even learned this stuff? He tried to check for a pulse, searching his mind to remember how to do it. He placed his fingers on the side of Paul's neck, right under the jaw. He hoped to god there was a pulse.

            He waited.

            And waited.

_Come on._

_Come on!_

            Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No hot blood pumping through the arteries and giving John the reassurance that Paul was not leaving him. John leaned in closer to the broken boy's face, hoping to find any signs of breathing, faint as they may be. Just as he feared, there were none. Christ, he wanted to cry, wanted to break down and sob, just clutching Paul's body and never letting go.

            All of a sudden, the sound of sirens could be heard approaching. The squeal of tires sounded a few feet from him. He heard doors slam and the punding of feet against the asphalt. Upon seeing the distressed musician, the paramedics stopped in disbelief. The famous John Lennon was tending to an injured Paul McCartney? After the initial shock wore off, they noticed just how distressed John was.

            "Shit, he's not breathing, he's not breathing! I couldn't find a pulse, christ he's dead, he left me too. He can't do that. He can't leave!" John rambled, running his hands through his hair.

            "Mr. Lennon, we need you to move away from Mr. McCartney," one of the medics, commanded, dropping down beside Paul, taking him from John's lap and laying him on the ground. John did as told, nearly not being able to watch as they performed emergency CPR.

            The medic performed chest compressions on the bassist, also stopping after about thirty compressions to give two breaths, then repeating the cycle. John _really_ wanted to break down now, wanted to cry and scream and punch a hole in the street. He was sure Paul was gone.

_You promised me you wouldn't leave! You promised!_

            "He's back!" the medic shouted, jolting John out of his morbid thoughts. His eyes lit up ever so slightly with those words. Maybe there was still hope for his best friend.

            Paul was lifted on to a stretcher and loaded into the ambulance. John explained to one of the others what had happened, but that he didn't know was what had caused the nearly fatal accident. They grimaced while they listened to the account. He was in bad condition and they had to get to the hospital immediately.

            "Mr. Lennon, would you mind staying with Mr. McCartney while we get him to the hospital?" the driver asked. John nodded, his eyebrows furrowed. He bit his lip in anxiety. Once John was seated next to Paul in the ambulance, they drove toward the hospital almost recklessly, in the wee hours of the morning.

            John held the younger man's unusually cold hand, squeezing it and wishing with all his might that the hand would squeeze back. No such luck.

            He felt sick to his stomach at the sight of the broken man that was slipping away. There was so much blood. The red looked disturbingly bright against Paul's pale skin. Tears pricked John's eyes once more. Fuck, what if he lost Paul for good?

***

            Nurses and doctors waited anxiously at the ER entrance, expecting their famous patient at any second. The ambulance stopped in front of the doctors and Paul was quickly carried out the back and inside the hospital. John followed, his warm hand clutching Paul's. He held on to that terrifyingly cool hand until he was forcefully pushed back by the doctors. John watched the bassist rushed to surgery as a team of nurses held him back. He couldn't feel their hands tug at his clothes or roughly push him away from the doors. He couldn't hear his own screams as he called out for his best friend. He was numb to everything. Soon, John was left to himself in the waiting area.

            Only when he was completely alone did John allow himself to break down. He leaned against the pristine white wall and slid down to the floor, holding his head in his hands. Sobs wracked his body as thoughts of Paul possibly _never coming out of there_ raced through his scattered mind.

            _Paul's gonna be fine. He's gonna be fucking fine._ John thought over and over. He repeated it like a mantra, almost hoping that his mindless chanting would heal his friend as soon as possible. After an hour, he finally calmed down enough to think clearly. John lifted his head and was about to stand when he noticed the redness on his body.

_Oh god._

            Blood stained his hands and shirt, and he wasn't even sure how much more of the crimson liquid was on him. So close to breaking down again, John breathed deeply and reminded himself of the task at hand. He had to make a few phone calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paul lives!  
> I feel terrible for John, but I couldn't resist writing this story. And who wouldn't become hysterical after all that?  
> Next chapter soon, comments appreciated :)


	5. I'm Down

            "What! Paul is where?"

            "George please, can you call Rings and get him to come to the hospital too? I can't handle this alone."

            The desperation and immense guilt could be heard in John's tired voice. George stood, phone in hand, frozen to the spot. The sleepiness melted away and was soon replaced by remorse and misery.

            "Y-Yeah. I'll ring him up soon. How'd this happen anyroad?"

            "I'll tell you when you get here. Just hurry. Please."

            "Alright. See you in a bit."

            George was still rooted to the spot several minutes after John hung up. He couldn't believe this. Christ, what if Paul _died_? He'd never be able to get over it. Paul was like his older brother, how could this happen to him? Sure, he was a tad controlling at times, and never gave any of his songs or opinions a chance, but that didn't mean he deserved all this shit.

            Pattie shuffled toward George, yawning loudly. Her eyes widened at the shocked and saddened expression on her boyfriend's face.

            "George, what's wrong? Who just called?"

            "That was John. He's at the hospital right now because Paul got into a serious accident. Christ, he said Paul's _dying._ He told me he needs me there with Ringo."

            "Oh god! Go then, I'll stay here. You call me if Paul's condition changes, alright? Pattie rushed. She was already grabbing the guitarist's coat and keys for him. He called Ringo, relaying John's information to him. Judging from the change in the drummer's voice, it sounded like he was just as stunned as him. Before George walked out the door, Pattie kissed him quickly.

            "Good luck." she whispered.

            George ran to his car and sped all the way to the drummer's flat. When Ringo got into the car, the two sat in silence as the scenery blurred around them. Neither could speak, they didn't think this could happen to any of them. This was supposed to be something that happened to someone else. Someone they'd read about in the papers and think was a terrible accident, and after a few minutes, move on with their lives. Not them. Not Paul. This was too much. If either of them allowed themselves to think about it, the tears would start to flow.

***

            John paced in the waiting room, endlessly restless. He muttered incessantly, still trying to convince himself that Paul would be okay. He'd given up trying to hide his crying and his eyes were now red and swollen, salty tears continually running down his cheeks.

            A few minutes later, George and Ringo burst into the room, yelling for John, but stopped short at the sight of the mess in front of them. John looked up wearily and recognized their distressed faces. He choked back a sob before nearly collapsing into their arms.

            It was a surprise for both the guitarist and the drummer. John had almost never openly cried in front of them. They held him, rubbing his back and letting him calm down. This was a bad sign though. If John was crying without regards to anyone, Paul was either in horrible shape, or, though they hoped to God he wasn't, dead.

            Soon, John regained enough composure to breathe normally again. George and Ringo slowly let go of the embrace, but George continued to hold him by the shoulders, worried that John could collapse at any moment.

            "John, what happened to him?"

            "It's all my fault!" John nearly screamed, "If we hadn't fought, he wouldn't have stormed off and gotten into his fucking car. He wouldn't be dying right now!"

            "What do you mean dying?"

            John nearly burst into tears again, trying so hard to keep from becoming hysterical. George watched him carefully. He'd never seen this side of John before. When Julia had died, John had reacted horribly, but right now, this was a hundred times worse.

            "After we fought," John sniffled, "Paul, he ran off. Got into his car and drove away. I waited around after both of you left. A bit later, I heard a crash. I ran outside and the fucking bastard had crashed into a tree. Never saw how though. The windshield was gone and there was glass everywhere. Christ, it was horrible. O-one of his legs was busted, his arm too. There was so much blood, oh god. I got him out, but he was screaming, christ he was in so much pain. But the car was on fire, I had to get him out! T-then I ran with him in my arms and set him down on the street outside the st-studio. Some stranger called an ambulance, but Christ, he fucking _died_ for a couple minutes until those medics revived him, a-and fucking hell t-this is a-all my fault!" John slumped further and buried his face in his hands; his entire body shook with grief.

            Ringo knelt to the ground in front of John and placed a hand on his shoulder. "None of this is your fuckin' fault! It was whoever got him distracted or he himself for Chrissakes!  Don't go beating yourself up over it." The drummer fought to sound confident, but his voice wavered as he held back more tears.

            "Ritchie's right, you know. This isn't your fault. All we can really do now is wait for some news." George added, yet still sounding doubtful. The horrifying description shook them both to the bone.

            John nodded slowly, not taking the risk of talking again. He knew that if he uttered another word, he'd go insane with sorrow. They settled down in the uncomfortable chairs and waited. For hours, the three stayed quiet, silent tears running down their cheeks. After awhile, they all fell asleep, exhausted from the night's trial. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's quite short, but the next one will be longer, I promise.  
> Comments appreciated :)


	6. If I Fell

            "Excuse me, Mr. Lennon? Mr. Harrison? Mr. Starkey?"

            "Mmph...five more minutes.." John mumbled.

            "I apologize if I'm interrupting your much needed rest, but I thought that I should let you know the condition your friend, Mr. McCartney is in as of now."

            "Wait, what? Where is he? Please tell me he's okay, Christ if he's dead I swear I'll-"

            "The good news is Mr. McCartney is not dead, sir. The bad news is that he is in critical, but stable condition. He now has a private room in the ICU, so as not to draw any attention. Any further questions?"

            "How bad is it?" John asked worrisomely.

            "Well, he fractured his left wrist badly and dislocated his shoulder, and his right tibia broke in two different places. Two of his ribs broke also, one of them puncturing a lung.That explains why it was so difficult for him to breathe. He also suffered a serious concussion; thank god we got to him in time. Both were most likely because of the force of his upper body ramming into the steering wheel. He also sustained some disturbingly deep cuts from the glass, but we've stitched those up as well. Mr. McCartney entered this hospital very bruised and battered. He's very lucky that you found him so quickly. He would've died if you hadn't found him so soon. We're still monitoring his vitals though. He may be stable, but he's not exactly in the clear yet."

            John looked down, saddened even more that so much had happened to Paul. He was glad he'd found his friend quickly. He didn't know what he'd have done had he not heard the crash.

            "Can I see him, doc?"

            "I'm afraid not. He's been heavily injured and needs all the sleep he can get. We've put him on pain killers and sleeping pills so that he can rest without any pain. I suggest you all go home and come back tomorrow."

            "No fucking way! I'm staying right here. No bloody way I'm walking out of this hospital until I see him!"

            Ringo continued to snore quietly, oblivious to the small argument between the doctor and John. However, George had woken up soon after John and sighed audibly at the commotion.

            "John, please, we'll all stay here. Obviously we can't see Paul yet. Why don't you get some sleep, okay?" George pleaded, yawning right after.

            "No, no, no, please Doctor, I've got to see him! You said it yourself, he's on sleeping pills, and I promise I won't wake him up. Just please! I need to see Paul!"

            The doctor sighed exasperatedly, but contemplated the plea. He massaged his head for a moment before finally agreeing.

            "Alright, fine. But only for five minutes, you hear me?"

            John nodded gratefully and started to follow the doctor. The corridors reeked of sickness and medicine, and the pristine white walls caused shivers to shoot down John's spine. The hospital seemed disturbingly ominous and tugged on the strings of his sanity.

            Finally, they stopped in front of a white door in the middle of one of the endless hallways. John wrung his hands nervously, wondering how badly Paul looked now. The doctor slowly opened the door, revealing Paul in a deep sleep.

            Thankfully, the blood had been cleaned off of the younger man, but his left arm was in a cast, along with his right leg. Some colour had returned to his face, but it still remained sickly pale. Different tubes and needles were inserted into his body, and it scared John not knowing what any of them were for.

            John sniffled as he felt the tears coming forth again for the millionth time. He struggled to remain as quiet as possible. Slowly, he stepped toward his best friend and placed Paul's hand in his own. He turned toward the doctor, who quickly nodded, before walking out and closing the door behind him in order to give John some privacy.

            The guitarist continued to cry as quietly as possible, hoping he wouldn't wake Paul.

            "I'm sorry, Paulie," John held Paul's hand to his cheek, "Just please don't die on me, I don't know what I'll do without you."

            More sobs wracked his body and John felt his heart shatter in grief for his best friend. When Julia and Stu had died, Paul had been there for him, always there to fix the cracks in his heart. This time, no one was there to pick up the pieces. The steady beeps and whirring of the machines only reminded him of how close he was to losing him too.

            He kissed Paul's knuckles, muttering apologizes even though John knew he couldn't hear them. He watched the bassist's now peaceful face, replacing the bloody, pained image that had etched itself into John's mind.

            "Huh," he laughed weakly, "I'm acting like a fucking nancy boy, eh Paul?"

            Feeling that talking would just upset himself more, John decided to remain quiet, watching Paul's peaceful face. 

            John's mind focused on happier things. Paul's gorgeous smile, the way his eyes crinkled and the fact that he had smile wrinkles even though he was still so young. His button nose, less sharp, and smaller than his own. Those droopy eyes, swirling with brown and green. They were so pure; it was like looking into bottomless pools. His eyebrows, perfectly arched (He swore they were plucked). Paul's lashes, miles long, rivaling those of some birds, yet they looked wonderful on his face. Paul's soft lips, the way they pouted or smiled or frowned. 

            His looks weren't all, either. Paul seemed perfect in every way possible. They were complete opposites yet exactly the same. It confused John in a way, but somehow he understood too. He didn't know how, he just did. Unlike John's rebellious fuck-all attitude, Paul was gentle and kind, well mannered and caring. Of course he could be annoying and terrible, but that was never much of an issue for John. If Paul could put up with the likes of John Lennon, he could do the same.

            He loved the way Paul always knew how to cheer him up, always able to bring him out of the depths of his misery. He loved how they could always talk for hours, saying everything from which girl they'd seen had the biggest tits to baring their _souls_ to each other. He loved the way Paul could sing, melodic and sweet, so much better than his own vocals, he'd always thought. He loved the way Paul knew just what harmonies to sing, which lyrics to put, which chords to go with. _He simply loved Paul._

Soon, his heart started beating faster, his head felt strangely light and butterflies started fluttering around his stomach. At first, John was confused. What was happening to him? But In that moment, he realized he felt something for his best friend. It was much more than mere friendship.

             It was love. Pure, unyielding love. The realization was so strong it would've knocked him off his feet had he not been sitting down.

            _This can't be right. I'm not queer._ John thought. Worry consumed his mind. Had he always been in love with his best friend? Where had all this come from? John studied Paul's features again and his worry was soon forgotten. The younger man was just so stunning. He just wanted to kiss the tip of his nose, his eyelids, his cheeks, his forehead, and those impeccably soft lips. Everything about him was just so beautiful.

            Soon, the door opened again and John heard the doctor clear his throat, telling him it was time to leave. John squeezed Paul's hand one last time and brushed away the stray hairs on the bassist's forehead. He leaned down and kissed Paul's cheek, whispering one more apology and three more words he would've never had the courage to say if Paul had been conscious.

_I love you._

            John had forgotten about the doctor's presence, but if he had seen the intimate gesture, the doctor said nothing about it.

            Back in the waiting area, John wiped away the last of his tears on his dirty sleeve and settled down hesitantly in an uncomfortable seat next to George. He fell asleep almost instantly.

_Please be alright, Paulie._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if John's realization seemed a little too sudden. I was aiming for that 'sweep you off your feet' kind of feeling :)  
> Comments appreciated! :)


	7. He Loves You

            The next time John woke, Paul was awake.

            "John! John, wake up! You gotta wake up!"

            "Wha-George I'm bloody knackered. Can't a bloke sleep without someone disturbing 'im?"

            "Well fine, if you don't want to see your best mate up and asking for you, I'll let you go on with your fucking beauty sleep."

            As the words processed in John's mind, he sat up at once, eyes suddenly open and alert. He jumped from his seat, nearly scaring the living daylights out of Ringo who'd nearly spilled his cup of coffee, and nearly tackled George in excitement.

            "He's awake?"

            "What have I been trying to bloody tell you?" he replied, both relieved that Paul would be alright and amused at John's excitement.

            John grinned so widely, George thought his jaw would fall off with the strain. His brown eyes now held a certain twinkle again that had disappeared hours before, when he and Ringo had first arrived.

            "Can I go and see him now?"

            "Yeah, yeah, that's why I've been trying to wake you up. You bloody sleep like the fucking dead! Me and Ritchie already went to see him half an hour before. Been asking for you, he has. I'll take you too him now if you want."

            As John and George walked through the endless white walls once again, they didn't seem as ominous as before. The halls were bright, and John felt strangely cheerful now, the corridors no longer reeking of death, but filled with healing strength and bliss. _Paul's awake, and he's alright!_ John thought happily, a slight spring in his step.

            They entered Paul's room, John walking through with confidence, where hours before, he had anxiously wondered about his friend's state of health.

            As soon as Paul heard footsteps approaching, he looked toward the door from a magazine he'd been flipping through. Upon seeing the man that had walked through the door, his hazel eyes lit up.

            "John!" Paul exclaimed, a wide grin on his face, despite the bandages still on his head. John almost chuckled at the chipped tooth, but it reminded him of the terrifying ordeal of the night before.

            "How are ya feelin', mate?" John asked, responding to the grin with a smile of his own. He pulled up a chair to sit next to the bassist on his bed.

            "Alright. Been better I suppose," Paul answered, his smile never faltering. The light in his eyes just seemed to become brighter the longer he looked at his best friend. John's eyes seemed to do exactly the same. Their bond was so incredibly strong that one could almost reach out and touch it.

            George smirked, looking at the change between them from the fight they'd been in before Paul's accident back to best mates and closer than ever. _I'll never understand those two,_ George thought.

            "I'll leave you two to your privacy then. You should be able to find your own way back, Lennon." With that, the guitarist left, closing the door behind him.

            As soon as the click of the door was heard, John's grin slowly faded. He was taking in all the bruises and bandages covering Paul's pale skin and he felt his heart tightening painfully once again. John was incredibly glad that Paul would be okay, but he couldn't help but blame himself for what had happened. Paul began to pick up on this and stretched out his hand to grip John's, ignoring the ache of his muscles and bones.

            "Don't you dare think this was your fault," Paul warned.

            "But I upset you and you-" Paul interrupted his oncoming rant on reasons why this was all his fault by covering John's mouth.

            "Not a peep out of you, you git. This was my fault, alright? I'm the one who kept us in the studio till four in the bloody morning, I'm the one who acted like a selfish fucker, I'm the one who stormed off, and I'm the one who didn't pay enough attention to the road. So don't you dare blame yourself for this."

            John felt his eyes burning and his vision started to blur. He sniffled once before a single drop fell from his eyes, followed by more. He looked down, gripped Paul's hand again, and angrily wiped away his tears on his sleeve. _When had he turned into such a fuckin' fairy?_

            "Oh Johnny," Paul whispered, giving John's hand a reassuring squeeze.

            "I just- I thought you were gonna die, Paulie. In fact, you did die for a bit. I didn't know what I'd do with myself if you left too."

            "I'm not leaving John, at least, not anymore. I'm afraid you're stuck with me forever now," Paul chuckled softly.

            John laughed quietly, his heart swelling. He stood up and wrapped his arms around Paul, enveloping him in a gentle hug. Paul returned the hug, but winced slightly. A small groan escaped his lips and John jumped back, fearing he'd hurt Paul further.

            "Oh god, are you alright? I'm so sorry." John asked, concern taking over.

            "Relax! The doctor said I'll be out of here in a week and then I just need another three weeks to heal, then I'll be good as new," He said, hoping those words would calm John down.

            Paul felt a bit strange. This John he rarely ever saw. This John, apologetic and nervous, was a John that Paul barely recognized. He shifted to the side of the hospital bed, leaving space for his friend, seeing that John still looked hesitant to be near him again.

            "Have a sit."

            John still felt uncertain, but he carefully lay down next to Paul. The bassist rested his good hand on top of John's. He raised his eyebrows slightly, but thought nothing of the intimate gesture. A loud sigh escaped Paul's lips.

            "John?"

            "Yeah?"

            "I know I kind of apologized already, but I want to do this properly. I'm sorry. I don't know what's getting into me. I wish I wasn't so fucking controlling."

            Part of John wanted to agree. Paul _was_ kind of a control freak. But he thought of all the times he'd sit in his house, switching between watching the telly, eating, and sleeping, when Paul would ring up and get them all down to the studio to get work done. Often, Paul would show up at John's door unannounced, pushing him to get off his lazy arse and start writing some songs. If not for his insistence, John doubted anything would've gotten done at all. It was because of Paul that they'd been able to churn out albums every six months.

            "No no no, Paul. Y'know, if it wasn't for you, we'd never get anything done. We'd be lucky to get an album out once every ten years if you weren't so persistent. Sure, you could tone it down a notch, but Christ, Macca, you're the one who gets us all going. We're all grateful for that."

            Paul's eyes started to water, and he ducked his head in embarrassment. John gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, reminding him it was okay to cry. The bassist smiled widely at that while wiping the wetness from his eyes.  

            "Ta, Johnny. And thanks, you know, for saving me. I'd be dead for good if you hadn't found me."

            "Hey that's what mates are for, innit? We fight like boxers in the ring and go around saving each other's lives."

            Paul chuckled softly and rested his head on John's shoulder. Their hands intertwined and neither questioned it. For a short time, they stayed like that, enjoying the comfortable silence. Soon, the bassist shifted nervously, and looked at John. The older man looked into his eyes and saw what looked to be doubt and...longing?

            "John?"

            "Yeah?"

            As soon as the word left John's mouth, Paul leaned in and pressed his lips against John's. For a second, the guitarist froze in shock. He couldn't believe that Paul might actually love him back. Only a few seconds later, Paul pulled away, leaving the older man's lips longing for more.

            Mortified at his own actions, Paul turned his head away from John, not wanting to see the disgust and anger that was surely written on John's face.

            "I-I'm sorry, John. I didn't know what I was think-"

            "Paul,"

            "Y-Yeah?" Paul's head was still turned away. He was gripping the sheets so tightly his knuckles turned white. What would John do now? He felt rough fingers cup his cheek. John turned Paul's head toward him, but Paul's eyes were shut tight.

            "Paul, I want you to look at me."

            Slowly, Paul opened his eyes. He braced himself for a look of pure loathing that would surely shatter the bassist's heart. Instead, all he saw in those warm brown eyes was tenderness and, was that love?

            John watched him carefully, searching the younger man's eyes for any sign of the emotion that had knocked him off his feet only a few hours ago. At first he saw fear in those hazel eyes, but it slowly melted away, changing into pure happiness.

            Before Paul could utter another word, John's thin lips were pressed against Paul's slightly chapped, full lips once again. His calloused fingers cupped both of Paul's cheeks. God, he tasted so good. Despite the slight bitterness of medicine and other remedies, he tasted of cigarettes and whiskey, of coke and sweets, and something John couldn't put a name to. All he knew was that it was distinctly Paul. To put it shortly, Paul tasted wonderful.

            The bassist was dumbfounded at first. He was so sure that John would've knocked his head around some more for doing something so _queer_. He had readied himself for an assault of harsh words and physical blows, but what he got instead took him by surprise.

            Paul responded to the kiss, putting all the love and joy he could into it. He ran his fingers through auburn hair, ignoring the protests of his body. Soon, he was overwhelmed with emotion. It was _so_ unlike him to cry a lot, but he couldn't help it. He broke the kiss and hugged John fiercely, nearly sobbing into his friend's (lover's?) shoulder.

            "Hey, it's alright, Paulie. What's wrong?" John soothed. Unsure of what was going on now, John rubbed Paul's back slowly, trying to make sense of the odd situation.

            "Nothing, it's just, I thought this would _never_ happen," Paul sniffled, "I think the medicine's going to my head; I'm acting like a fucking bird."

            John grinned, amused at Paul's ever changing moods. He kissed Paul's forehead and wiped away the salty tears. Then something clicked.

            _"I thought this would never happen."_

            Had he been thinking about this long?

            "Wait, how long have you wanted this to happen?" John asked, curious as to how long Paul had been dealing with these feelings.

            "I, uh, maybe a while now...?" Paul answered hesitantly. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights now.           

             "Seriously Macca, how long?"

            "Well, um, since Hamburg maybe?"

            It was John's eyes that widened now. _That long?_ He'd been all jittery since last night when he'd realized how he'd felt. He couldn't imagine having those kind of feelings bottled up for _years._

            "For chrissakes, Paul! That's, what, about four years? How come you never said anything?"

            "You bloody well know why! You know what everyone thinks about queers, and what with you teasing Eppy all the time, I thought you'd think the same of me. I was afraid, John. I was afraid you'd think I was disgusting and never want to talk to me again. I didn't want to risk our friendship and our band! They mean way too much to me." Paul argued loudly, but with the last sentence, his voice became soft, nearly a whisper.

            "Alright, alright Paulie, calm down. I understand, okay? Frankly, I probably would've done the same. The thing is, I kind of only realized last night. I haven't been dealing with this for as long as you have. When I saw you lying on that hospital bed I realized how much you meant to me. I mean, you're my best mate. I couldn't imagine losing you. I'd have gone mad if I had."

            Paul sniffled again, and shoved him lightly with his good shoulder.

            "Shurrup John, I'm supposed to be the sentimental romantic here." he joked, but there was a layer of gratitude in his voice.

            "You should have a rest now. I've kept you up long enough," John spoke softly.

            Paul rubbed his eyes with his good hand. "Guess you're right." he yawned, the day's events finally catching up with him.

            "Sleep tight, Macca," John whispered. He moved to get out from the bed, but he felt a tug on his coat.

            "Johnny?"

            "Yeah, Paulie?"

            "What happens now? Y'know, between us?"

            John smiled tenderly, "I love you, and I think that's all that matters." He declared, before he lost the courage to say it.

            Paul grinned brightly, looking beautiful despite the chipped tooth, the bandages and the casts. John could clearly seethe relief and love swelling in those eyes.

            "I love you too, Johnny."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is, the last chapter.  
> I'm quite a beginner with longer fics, I'm not quite happy with this.  
> Then again, I wrote this awhile ago, and I was letting it gather dust in my fic folder. But I thought, I worked on this, I should at least publish it somewhere.  
> Thank you all for reading then, love you all!  
> Final comments, anyone?


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